Page 24

Chapter Twenty-Four

Connor

I drop my duffel with a thud and sink onto the nearest bench, dragging my hands down my face like they might erase the memory of Lucy storming out last night.

I didn’t sleep. Not really.

I kept replaying it over and over in my head. The way her voice kept cracking, her eyes glassy with betrayal as they bore into me with tears spilling over. The way she looked at me like I’d joined the list of people who let her down.

And maybe I did.

Because even if my heart was in the right place, I still made the one move I swore I never would—shutting her out. Just like the people she’s been fighting against her whole damn life.

Nice going, Walsh.

I lean back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling tiles like they’ve got answers buried between the seams. I keep thinking about the last thing she said before she walked out.

“You don’t get to decide when I matter.”

And fuck if that didn’t split me clean open.

The locker room still smells the same as when we left for the offseason tour. Cedar polish, sweat, and the ghosts of a hundred games.

But after the chaos of LA, at least it feels like home .

I close my eyes for a second. Just breathe it in. The scrape of skates on tile, the distant thud of weights in the gym, the hum of the vending machine that only ever spits out lemon-lime Gatorade.

Everything's normal.

Except nothing’s normal anymore.

I head toward the coach’s office, knocking once before stepping in. Brody’s at his desk, typing something, but he stops the second he sees me. He leans back in his chair with a low grunt, eyeing me with a frown that usually scares the shit out of me.

“You look like you haven’t slept.”

I shrug. “I haven’t.”

He nods, then remains silent for a beat. Then, in a rare shift of tone, he says, “You wanna sit, or just hover like a storm cloud?”

I take the chair, sinking into the worn leather like it might hold me together better than I’m managing on my own.

Through the office window, Iron Ridge stretches beyond the glass. Overnight snow is crusted along the rooftops, pine trees swaying just enough to make the mountains look alive.

Somewhere out there, Lucy’s trying to piece herself back together. Probably nursing a cold coffee, sitting in that window booth at Chapter & Grind with her knees pulled up and her heart still cracked open.

I stare at the curve of the ridgeline, the place where town meets sky, and wonder if she’s looking at the same view right now, wondering the same damn thing.

Coach doesn’t look at me right away. He reaches for the hockey stick leaning against the wall and runs his fingers along the blade like it's an old habit he can't break.

“So,” he says finally, voice rough with meaning. “You and Lucy holding up okay?”

My stomach knots. I glance out the window.

“We’re managing,” I say, because it’s easier than no , or not really , or I’m pretty sure I permanently broke her heart last night.

Coach exhales through his nose. “There was a lot of talk in L.A. About the Daniels family.”

"I know. I'm sorry."

“I spoke to half a dozen execs at that gala,” he says, voice low. “Three of them mentioned Ethan’s name before dessert. So I figured I’d be seeing you in here sooner or later, but my question is, what the hell is going on?"

I shift in my chair, fingers tightening around my knee as I stare out the window.

“We’re handling it,” I say finally. “Or trying to.”

He grunts. Not skeptical. Not convinced, either. We both know trying doesn’t cut it when the entire franchise could be on the line.

“You know, Walsh. I’ve seen that look before,” he mutters, tipping his head in my direction. “The one you've got right now. I wore it myself for a long time. Thought carrying the weight meant I was doing the right thing.”

I glance up, surprised by the softness in his tone.

“Turns out,” he adds, “it just meant I didn’t trust anyone else to carry it with me.”

I exhale through my nose.

“Coach, it feels like if I don’t hold it together, it all falls apart. It's exactly how I felt when I moved here all those years ago.”

I stare out at the ridgeline again, the jagged horizon I used to hate those first few months when I was drafted into the minor league.

It reminded me of everything I’d lost by moving here. My hometown, rare family dinners and the noise that made the silence bearable.

For those first lonely months in Iron Ridge, I didn’t even unpack my boxes. Thought this was just a pit stop. Somewhere to play until the next trade.

But then the team started showing up. For me. In ways I didn’t expect.

Like the family I never had.

Just like they are right now… for Lucy.

Coach leans forward, elbows braced on his knees.

“Yeah. And you know what? That’s exactly how I felt after I blew out my knee. Tried to rehab on my own. I pushed everyone away because I was so angry. Thought I had something to prove.” His jaw tightens as he shakes his head. “All I proved was that I couldn’t do it alone.”

I stare at the floor for a long moment.

“But it’s not just Ethan,” I finally say. “It’s Lucy too. She’s trying so hard to protect her brother… but I’m watching her bleed out from the effort.”

Coach is quiet, then he says, “So stop watching, Walsh.”

I glance up, something starting to click.

“Help her in a way that matters. Without making it about being the hero.”

That lands harder than I want it to. Because he’s right.

Connor Walsh doesn’t need to make a scene. He just needs to skate the fuck out of the mess with his head down and his heart all in.

Because that's just what I do.

“So. You got a plan, or are you still sitting in the guilt phase?” Coach Brody asks with a smirk.

And just like that, the general is back.

I straighten in the chair and paste the smuggest grin I've ever had on my face.

“Don't you worry your pretty face, Coach. I’ve got a plan.”

“Good.” Coach Brody nods once. “Then let’s make it happen.”

***

Despite our chat yesterday, Coach Brody put us through preseason hell this morning.

Bag skates, full-ice drills, suicide laps like we were being punished for sins no one had confessed to yet. He didn’t yell, didn’t bark. Just stood at the blue line with that disappointed-dad scowl like we’d personally let him down in L.A.

By the time we get back to the locker room, we’re all dripping in sweat and attitude. The air smells like damp gear, liniment, and bruised egos.

I drag a towel over my face and drop onto the bench next to Ryder, who’s too busy trying to rip off his tape with his teeth to notice he’s bleeding.

“You good?” I ask, eyeing the scrape on his knuckle.

He spits the tape onto the floor. “Am now.”

Across the room, Blake tosses a water bottle at Logan, who catches it one-handed without looking.

“So what’s the plan, Walsh?” he calls out, glancing to the corner of the room. “You gonna fix your girlfriend’s family drama with your puck handling skills?”

“Please don’t say puck handling again,” Ryder mutters.

“I second that,” Logan says, half-laced and leaning back like his spine’s barely intact. He shoots a glance toward the far end of the bench where my special guest is sitting nervously. “Still weird you’re boning his sister, by the way.”

His head tilts toward Ethan, who’s huddled in silence near the corner lockers like a man trying to disappear into the wall.

“Thank you,” Ethan mutters under his breath, rubbing his palms together.

Blake lifts a brow. “Still weird that he’s in here, period. What’d you do, invite him in for post-practice juice boxes?”

I shoot Blake a warning look. “He’s here because I asked him to be.”

The room quiets a little—not enough to be awkward, just enough for everyone to take notice.

Because despite being close to the team, Ethan’s not one of them. He's not an Icehawk. He doesn’t have a stall with his name on it, doesn’t belong to the sacred brotherhood that gets forged between four walls of sweat, blood, and tape burns.

But he’s here now.

And I need him to say what he came to say.

Ethan looks at me and straightens like he knows it’s his cue.

I stand up. “Alright. Let’s cut the chirping for a sec.”

Blake leans back, Logan stops mid-tape, and Ryder looks up from where he’s untying his skates.

I nod toward Ethan and slide a warning glance over my teammates.

“Alright. I think it's fair to say this man has been wrapped up in some shady shit lately. But he’s here because he wants to make it right. And I’m asking—no, I’m telling —you to give him a minute and hear him out.”

My voice doesn’t rise, but it doesn’t have to. There’s grit in it. An edge that gets the locker rooms attention.

Ethan steps up and clears his throat.

“Thanks, man." Ethan says, looking around like a schoolboy on his first day. "Listen guys, I’ve talked to Connor. And I’ve talked to Lucy,” he says, voice tighter than usual. “And it's about time that I take accountability for what I'm putting you all through. No more bullshit."

"I’ve scheduled a meeting with league compliance. I’ll tell them everything I did, every line I crossed. Every bet that's put all of you at risk of losing everything you all worked damn hard for.”

The room quiets. No chirping now.

“I’ve also signed myself into a rehab program. Gambling, substance—everything. I’ve needed help for a long time. And with Connor's help, I’m finally taking it.”

Nobody speaks as they all share glances with each other.

Then Blake, ever the Captain and leader of men, claps. “Well, shit. Guess we’re proud of you, man.”

“Didn’t see that coming,” Ryder adds, genuine under the sarcasm.

Logan just tosses Ethan a towel and mutters, “You mess up again, I’m checking you into rehab myself.”

Ethan huffs a laugh. “Fair.”

The silence lingers after Ethan’s speech. Not awkward. Not cold. Just… heavy.

Then Blake leans forward and breaks it with a mutter. “Shit. That was the most mature thing I’ve heard in this room since Coach told Ryder to stop peeing in the shower.”

“Hey,” Ryder grunts. “I said I was hydrating —”

“Enough,” I say, pacing to the middle of the room, adrenaline buzzing in my fingertips. “Alright. He’s owning it. But we all know that’s not gonna fix it. Not for the league. Not for Lucy.”

I scrub a hand through my hair and let my thoughts catch up to my mouth.

“We’ve been reacting to everything. Apologizing. Scrambling. But what if we didn’t just clean up the mess?” My eyes sweep the room. “What if we turned it into something good?”

Ryder squints. “Like a redemption arc?”

“Exactly,” I say. “A legends charity game. One night. Packed house here at The Nest."

I glance at Ethan. “We pay off his debt, give him and my girl a clean slate, all while raising awareness about gambling addiction in pro sports. Prove that Lucy and I had nothing to do with any of it. And the rest?”

I look at Blake.

“We tie it into your youth hockey program. Mental health initiatives for kids in sport. We use this screw-up to actually do something that matters .”

Blake whistles. “You might actually be onto something.”

Ryder’s already typing into his phone. “I’m gonna design the most hideous jerseys this town has ever seen.”

Blake rises to his feet. “I’ll text Eli. Get Ridgeview on board for a launch event. Maybe the old bastard will even pull his skates on for the night.”

Logan pulls out his phone. “Yeah. Actually, I’ve got an old buddy who still skates with the Firehawks. Bet he’ll show up for a good cause.”

I glance back at Ethan, who’s still standing there, stunned.

And for once, speechless.

Slowly, the locker room clears out, phones buzzing with texts and plans already in motion. But Ethan stays behind, hovering near my stall until we're alone.

“This doesn’t erase what happened,” I say. "You know that, right?"

Ethan nods. "I know."

“But it’s how we start making it right. Because we're family.”

"Connor." His voice cracks. Not the smooth-talking venture capitalist anymore. Just my best friend who lost his way. "I don't—I don't know how to say thank you."

I zip up my bag, taking my time. "Don't."

"But this is—"

"No." I turn to face him. "You want to thank me? Then just help me win your sister back."